


Celegorm's cruel servants

by archiving (Zimraphel)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: about rescuing princes during mass-murder, but I did have a Point, during this unfortunate phase in my life, i thought it made it all very austere, i was such an edgy little shit when i wrote this, i was. in love. with overusing. periods, so...lol srry.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27996849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimraphel/pseuds/archiving
Summary: "Are you...." he asks, "do you... did you know they seized the children? That they took those twins and left them for the animals?" His voice rasps a bit. It didn't do so before; it will rarely happen again.Makalaurë  doesn't answer: he rarely, if ever, has answers to anything anymore. Before, it was easy to believe in music, in the Song; in the unity and necessity of things. Now he just dances, sword in hands, and tries to imagine this is inevitable, part of some greater theme; he is a leitmotif, yes, somehow, someday this will all make sense, yes; better not to think about it too much now. He is living in an elvish song. He is part of it. Their cries are part of it. Dead children are part of it. The trees, the sky. He cannot escape the song because he cannot escape the world.(Celegorm's servants would disagree).[old ficlet I apparently posted to LJ back in 2012].
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Celegorm's cruel servants

**Author's Note:**

> Ow, the edge.
> 
> Would you believe Maedhros and Maglor were two of my favourite characters at the time of writing? Hmm.
> 
> I was very fond of two things though; periods. and. misery.
> 
> my apologies, I'm archiving.

"I wonder" Alarmacil says, "if he at least sees the irony in this."

Tanovion looks up from sharpening his sword, one eyebrow raised. "Do you really? For all their brilliance, I have never known a Finwëan capable of that particular type of insight."

Somewhere in the distance, a mighty voice is already singing a mourning song. The melody carried on the wind sounds more like it belongs in an opera house than on a battlefield. It is a beautiful day. Sun drenched and pristine. 

"He has never killed his own food you know. He prefers others that do that for him. I suppose that makes it less banal, less real. And today - did you hear his latest battle lay? It was like he was trying to outsing the cries of those he slew. To somehow frame it all in song _before_ it even actually happened. Perhaps that made it seem like he could do nothing else. Like it had already happened."

"Coward."

"Exactly. He doesn't want the world."

Tanovion continues sharpening his sword. A dog barks in the distance. One of Celegorm's perhaps? But then, it could be anyone's. It could be one of the children's maybe, searching for them. But the tracks are well hidden. They were, after all, taught by the very best.

At a vantage point on a little hill amid the trees, Maedhros stands. Maedhros, who could not protect his little brothers any more than Dior could protect his sons. He weighs and reweighs the ethics of slaughter in his mind but cannot come to any answer. An eye for an eye? Perhaps. 

A woman shivers with cold and misery on the still frosty morning ground. There is silence now. No more mourning songs, no. Where are her daughters? Where is her son? Peeks out of the bushes for just a moment. An arrow in her throat. Too early. Her children already slain, anyway. At this point, the Noldor are hunters. They do not think. They shoot. 

  
  
Two brothers, huddled together. Makalaurë has his songs to wrap around himself like a cloak but what does Maedhros have? Guilt. Loss. Still no Silmaril. Doubts, sometimes, but always duty. 

"Are you...." he asks, "do you... did you know they seized the children? That they took those twins and left them for the animals?" His voice rasps a bit. It didn't do so before; it will rarely happen again. 

Makalaurë doesn't answer: he rarely, if ever, has answers to anything anymore. Before, it was easy to believe in music, in the Song; in the unity and necessity of things. Now he just dances, sword in hand, and tries to imagine this is inevitable, part of some greater theme; he is a leitmotif, yes, somehow, someday this will all make sense, yes; better not to think about it too much now. He is living in a great elvish song. He is part of it. Their cries are part of it. Dead children are part of it. The trees, the sky. He cannot escape the song because he cannot escape the world. 

"Did you know?" Maedhros asks again, a little louder now. His voice sounds raw and bare, like some protective layer was stripped off it. Grasps his brother's shoulders."Did you?" he shouts, now. Shakes Makalaurë's shoulders, everything attached to them. "Did you _know_?"

Finally, a nod. A small movement beneath dark, dirtied hair. There are clots in it, but it is hard to tell what they are exactly. His hair is dark. So is the dirt. So is dried blood. Makalaurë doesn't care. 

Maedhros' hands fall by his sides, powerless. A nightingale sings in the distance, still. Makalaurë is silent. There is not much to say about or sing about this, not really, he thinks. They could dig graves, maybe. Not leave them to rot, at least. There is only so much a butcher can do for his victims. 

"We cannot leave them there. We cannot leave children to starve in the forest. We _cannot_. You must understand this Makalaurë. You must." There a desperation to his voice. You must understand this. You must understand even if there is no logic to it. You must, you must. "Who took them, brother?" Silence. Maedhros fights the urge to shake him some more. Makalaurë always takes his time. Does not think in practicalities.

Makalaurë sighs. 

"The cruel servants of Celegorm took them" he says softly, "in rebuttal for the slaying of their master, our brother."

Oh. The very disappearance he could have considered a just strike of Fate suddenly becomes even more of a blow to the guts. Had he not considered this fair, maybe, in a some twisted way? Had he not considered this just? But they are _children_. And fate has a face now. They did not get lost; they did not run away in fear; they were taken and Makalaurë knew and did not stop it from happening. But then, has his brother ever stopped anything from happening?  
  
"What!" he belows, "what!" and shakes with fury and grief. Makalaurë sits still, silent. Tries to listen to the birds. To smell the niphedril, not the corpses. 

"When our mother" Maedhros says "called you _sensitive_ , she was mistaken!" and strides towards the camp, near running, nearly falling over fallen bodies. 

\--  
  
"Tanovion! Look who comes a-running in our direction."  
  
Tanovion continues sharpening his sword. "I would not expect a sudden understanding from _him_ , if you know what I mean" Alarmacil says. "He may not sing songs while he slays, but he has certainly never heard the thoughts of his victims, wouldn't if he could either. Prefers to keep them at a distance, has illusions of morality and justice, somehow. Remember how Tyelko would laugh with us about their queasiness about hunting with him? How they told him to 'shut up about what the deer was thinking' just before they slew it? They had no trouble eating it, though."  
  
Tanovion smiles faintly. "Of course I do. We all do. Miss him."

"Yes. But they won't miss us. And we are the faces of their guilt now, Tanovion." 

Maedhros is closer now, near enough to see the terrible fury on his face. He is pink with it. The colour clashes with his hair. His torn cape flies about him like a madman's.  
  
"Murderers of children!" he shouts at them. What is left of the Noldorin army looks his way. They are all murderers of children, Maedhros included.

"Cruel servants of Celegorm!" he shouts now, though this is unnecessary. Those for whom it is meant have seen this coming all along. The cruel servants of Celegorm. How charming. So the singer _has_ seen reason to weave their part in this into his songs. They should have known not to trust him, but there is nothing they can do about that now. 

-  
  
  
  
Maedhros is again on the little hill top, now out of breath and bathing in fresh blood. His hair drips with it, dying it a deeper red. 

"So" the singer says "there you are again, brother." He has a clump of niphedril in his lap and is weaving it into a garland. Some are stained with blood, but he does not seem to mind.   
  
Maedhros is the one to keep his silence now. For a moment there is nothing but the singing of nightingales in the distance. Then, suddenly, Makalaurë looks up. 

"When mother called you _sensible,_ " he says acidly, "she was mistaken. Do you have any idea where those children _are_?"

Maedhros seems to move his lips but no sound comes out. 

"I thought so."

Makalaurë sighs. Inspects his finished garland. Throws it away. 

"I suppose you better start searching them, then." he says staring into the distance "You won't hear it from _them_ now, and I won't be coming with you. But I think you could have guessed as much. I am, after all, not the 'sensible' one."  
  
"Why?" There is still a strain of desperation in his voice. Hope for redemption maybe.

"Why? Why search for two children at all? Yes, _why_." Makalaurë stands up, brushing the dirt off his tunic.

"Well, you may not have noticed them, but here are, after all, enough children here already."

Maedhros turns away. 

-

_.....and the cruel servants of Celegorm seized his young sons and left them to starve in the forest. Of this Maedhros indeed repented, and sought long for them in the woods of Doriath; but his search was unavailing, and of the fate of Elured and Elurin no tale tells._

**Author's Note:**

> I used Makalaure for Maglor because he still thinks of himself as such; Maedhros on the other hand could never be Maitimo after Thangorodrim.


End file.
